


Through the Line

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor decision making is Will's specialty, especially after a few drinks. Tonight, Rachel's along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Line

Will is very, very good at feeling sorry for himself. 

  
He’s even better after a few cans of PBR (it was on sale at the supermarket, okay? It’s not like he drinks that stuff on a regular basis. Will prefers microbrews). The book he’s reading tonight isn’t distracting him from self-reflection: two characters who do their best to hurt each other. He sees Emma’s name in every line of the page. 

  
When the text starts dancing in front of his eyes, the black font blurring into the white background, Will puts the book down and decides, all right, there’s no school tomorrow and he doesn’t have anywhere to be, so maybe it’s time to open that bottle of Scotch and get  _seriously_  committed. He’s gonna get very drunk, and he’s gonna look at Facebook, and click through Emma’s pictures, one by one, and try really hard not to look at Carl Howell’s grinning, gloating face. He’ll have the Friday night he needs.

  
Except that by the time he’s three glasses into the bottle of Glenfiddich, he’s lost even that masochistic impulse, having only the energy to sit on the couch and stare at the wall. 

  
It’s a nice wall. It doesn’t ask him to do anything.

  
He thinks about the ring on Emma’s hand and how he would’ve picked a much more subtle diamond for her, something delicate and sweet. Carl clearly doesn’t know her like Will does; Will never would’ve chosen a big stone like that, if he’d been in Carl’s shoes. 

  
“That asshole,” he says out loud, to no one in particular. 

  
The phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through Will’s spiral of regret, and he lunges for it, missing the receiver the first time. He’s drunker than he thought. 

  
There’s only one person who calls him. Hope agitates in his stomach.

  
“‘Lo? Emma? Em? I’m so glad you called.”

  
“Mr. Schuester? It’s not Ms. Pillsbury, actually. It’s me.”

  
It takes him embarrassingly long to recognize the voice, confusion and whiskey dragging his brain back from the obvious conclusion.

  
“Rachel?” he asks, after a pause. “That you?”

  
“Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry to call so late on a Friday evening, but I have something I really want to speak to you about, and I don’t want to wait until Monday morning.”

  
“Go ahead.” He gestures grandly, even though she can’t see him, arm swinging wide in a signal of permission. “State your emergency.”

  
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and he realizes, belatedly, that he might sound like he’s mocking her. “Hey, no, Rachel, go ahead, really. It’s fine that you called. Wasn’t doing anything, anyway.”

  
“Are you –“ She hesitates. “Mr. Schue, have you had something to drink?”

  
“Just a little bit. Well, a lot, actually. Shhh. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell Santana.”

  
He hears her laugh through the receiver, and it’s a little sour. “Santana and I don’t exactly talk.”

  
“Well, don’t tell her.” It gives him this crawling, uneasy feeling when he thinks about Santana and her understanding glances. Like she knows, without being told, that adulthood is all performance; like she knows that Will still feels like a seventeen-year-old boy who’s been given a surprising amount of authority, and still isn’t sure how to execute it. 

  
Rachel doesn’t look at him like that. Not yet, anyway. Not exactly. There’s another conversation in her eyes altogether, something growing stronger over the last few months, something like pity. 

  
“If you want us to win regionals this year, you’re going to need to showcase your best talent,” she informs him. “I understand why you used Quinn and Sam at sectionals, and Santana did an admirable job with that Amy Winehouse cover, but we both know Quinn’s reedy voice isn’t going to cut it at regionals. Let me do something with Mercedes, or Tina. Or Artie, even, if you want to uphold the traditional boy-girl presentation.”

  
“Rachel, you’re not the teacher,” he says, bluntly, trying to keep from slurring his words. “I am. And I get to make the decisions about who gets the solos.”

  
“I’m perfectly aware of that. But you’re not making good decisions.”

  
He’s starting to get a headache. He’s still way too drunk to be getting a headache. This isn’t what he’d wanted for his evening. He’d been happier staring at the blank wall. “You just don’t like my decisions because they don’t include you. Rachel, winning isn’t everything. Sometimes you gotta let other people have a turn in the spotlight, okay?”

  
“Of course it is.” She sounds astonished. “Of course winning’s important. How can you even say that? Do you know what happens if we don’t win? We  _lose_. I’m not going through that again, Mr. Schue. Let me pull us through.”

  
“You had a solo last year,” he says. Will knows how mean he sounds, but pushes ahead, anyway. “We still lost.”

  
Her voice trembles on the other end of the line, and Will feels a pang of remorse. He forgets how young she still is, sometimes. It’s a talent she has, making him forget. “I’m better than I was, last year. And that’s cruel.”

  
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. But I’m not giving you a solo just because you’re asking me. I’m still thinking about it.” (He’s lying; he’s already decided to showcase Rachel at regionals, because she’s absolutely right, and yes, he does want to win. He wants to win badly. He wants to march into Sue’s office with their trophy and crow his triumph. He wants to show Emma, watch her face as she finally realizes what she’s lost.)

  
“Okay,” she says, subdued. “I apologize for bothering you at home, Mr. Schue.”

  
“It’s fine. I wasn’t busy anyway. Just sitting here.” He hesitates, and then thinks,  _what the fuck, just say it_. “With my bottle of Scotch. By myself.”

  
“That sounds horrible.” It’s the note of compassion he’s wanted to hear from someone, anyone, for a very long time, and he closes his eyes, letting the sound envelop him.

  
“I wish you’d stayed,” he blurts out. “After everyone left. On Christmas. Remember? Sue wouldn’t leave and she challenged me to an arm-wrestling match and she’s really really strong, did you know that? It would’ve been nicer if you were here instead.”

  
“You wanted me to stay?” Her gratefulness goes right to his chest, a warming agent like brandy or the burn of the Glenfiddich. 

  
“We could’ve sang something, maybe,” Will suggests. “A classic Christmas duet. Maybe some Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.” 

  
“I’d sing Frank’s part,” she says, just as he’s about to claim Frank for his own. “You’ve got a vocal quality much closer to Bing’s. My voice is much more compatible with Frank.”

  
“Okay,” he tells her, agreeably. He’s in an agreeing mood. “You’d be standing next to the tree. I can see you there, right now, with your face all bright. You just light up when you sing, Rachel, you know that? We wouldn’t even need the Christmas tree lights. Just your face would be enough.” He really can see her, almost, standing next to the tree that’s faded now: dehydrated and molting. It’s the middle of January. The tree should probably come down soon, but he can’t bring himself to remove it: this gift from his kids that’s made him feel so much like a part of something.

  
Rachel’s silent, briefly, and then she says, “That means a lot to me, Mr. Schue. It’s not as though I don’t know what I look like when I sing. I’ve watched my videos enough to know every muscle movement. But it’s very nice to hear it from someone else. Someone who isn’t my dads.”

  
Will’s still trapped in the vision of Rachel at his tree. “We’d sing, and I’d watch you from across the room. It sounds great, honestly.”

  
“Of course it does. It’s the two of us, after all.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Do I stay longer, after we’re finished singing? Do we roast chestnuts on an open fire?”

  
“Maybe later. First, you come sit next to me on the couch,” he continues, and his mouth is dry, suddenly, from what he hasn’t yet said.

  
“Tell me what happens next, Mr. Schue,” she says, quietly. She’s asking for a story. He’s good at stories. 

  
“We talk,” he tells her. It’s what he wants, more than anything, honestly: someone to talk to, someone who’ll listen to his worries and his fears, someone to reassure him he’s honestly a good guy, somewhere below the hum of poor decisions masking what he knows is his real self. “We talk and I apologize for how I’ve been treating you lately.”

  
“That’s very considerate of you.”

  
“And then you ask me how I’m doing.”

  
“How are you doing, Mr. Schue?” she asks. 

  
He starts to say the polite thing, and then realizes he doesn’t have to, not tonight, not with her. Relief washes over him like a lick. “Not good, if I’m being honest.”

  
She doesn’t sound surprised. “I’m happy to listen, if you need a friendly ear.”

  
“I miss Emma,” he says, no longer caring that this is clearly a conversation he shouldn’t be having with a student. “I miss her a lot. She barely talks to me anymore, and when she does it’s so awkward.”

  
“Are you telling me this while we’re sitting on the couch in your scenario, or are you telling me now?” Rachel inquires. “I’m getting the two timelines a little confused.”

  
“This isn’t  _Inception_. It’s not that complicated.” His head throbs. “I’m trying to tell you why I’m not doing good. Not doing well. I miss Emma when I’m on the couch with you. I miss her now. It doesn’t matter, okay?” This logic makes sense to him, mostly.

  
Rachel doesn’t ask him to clarify. “Why do you miss her?” 

  
 _Because she was there, and now she isn’t. Because Carl won, and I didn’t. Because when I held her I felt so strong._ “She’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. She’s there for you kids. She smells like lavender.” It’s the scent of her hand sanitizer, which Will happens to know Emma orders from a website.

  
“I can understand that,” she says, softly. “I miss Finn, too. I treated him horribly, you know. I should never have done what I did with Puck. I don’t know why I did it. I was angry, but that’s no excuse.”

  
He’s startled out of his reverie. Will forgets, sometimes, that his students have lives and loves and regrets of their own. “Sometimes,” he says, a little thickly, “you do things you know you shouldn’t, just because you can.”

  
“What do you do?” There’s a curious quality to her voice he hasn’t heard before. “I’m sitting next to you on the couch, Mr. Schue, and you’re telling me about Ms. Pillsbury, and I tell you how sorry I am, and then what do you do?”

  
“Your hair is so soft,” he manages. “It feels so soft under my hand. I don’t know what you put in it to make it that soft.”

  
She doesn’t answer him. He hears her breathing, light and quick, through the receiver.

  
“I’m touching your hair,” Will clarifies. He’s almost dizzy with the sound of his description in his throat, the whiskey loosening his words. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Rachel.”

  
“Not yet,” she says.

  
Will closes his eyes. 

  
“I want to,” he confesses. It’s his plea for martyrdom; it's his undoing.

  
She swallows, audibly. 

  
“I  _want_  to,” he repeats, and gives in, the heel of his hand pushing against his cock, rapidly swelling beneath his jeans. “Tell me you want it too, okay? Tell me.”

  
“I want it,” Rachel whispers, and that’s all the permission he needs. 

  
“Okay, okay, so I’m going to – this is what happens, Rachel, are you listening?” He tries not to stumble over his sentences, but it’s almost impossible; he’s rushing forward before either of them begin to come to their senses. “I’m touching your hair, and it’s fine, it’s perfectly appropriate, and then you put your hand on my leg.”

  
“I couldn’t help myself,” she says. “I’ve wanted to touch your leg for a long time. I can tell how muscled it is, even underneath your slacks. Can I – ”

  
“What?” The answer to whatever she’s going to ask him is yes. “What, Rachel?”

  
“I want to sit in your lap. Can I sit in your lap? It’s not – that inappropriate. Not really. We can still rationalize it.”

  
He unzips his jeans, dives beneath his boxers and wraps a trembling fist around his erection. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he tells her. “Nothing.”

  
“I slide over on the couch,” she continues, “and I swing my left leg over yours and sit on top of your thighs, facing forward, my back to you. You’re so warm, Mr. Schue. You’re so solid underneath me.”

  
“Can you feel it?” he asks, almost gasping. “God, I’m so hard it hurts. And you’re in my lap and you  _know_ , don’t you? You know exactly how hard I am, because you can feel it.”

  
She moans a little into the receiver, and it makes his cock pulse in his hand. “Yes,” she says, “yes, I can feel it.”

  
“You don’t tell me, though,” he clarifies. “You don’t show any sign that you know what you’re doing to me. You wiggle, though, like you’re trying to get comfortable, except that you’re rubbing against me.”

  
“I’m good at pretending,” Rachel whispers.

  
“It’s driving me insane, and I can’t help it, I have to touch you – I put my hands over your breasts, those beautiful breasts of yours – God,  _Rachel_ , they feel so good in my hands. They’re perfect, they’re the perfect size. I can feel your nipples underneath your blouse, your bra. They’re just as hard as I am.”

  
“No turning back,” she gasps, a thread of satisfaction lacing through her voice. “You can’t pretend you don’t want me anymore, Mr. Schue, not now that you’re touching me.”

  
He pulls at his cock, slowly extending it, not fucking his hand, not yet. He wants to drag this out as long as he can. Will knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that this is a one-time occurrence, an event he can rationalize away with the excuse of the Glenfiddich. He can’t repeat this, not if he’s going to keep believing in his innate goodness.

  
“Tell me what you’re doing, Rachel.” He needs to know, needs the picture of her in his mind. “Tell me what you’re doing right now.”

  
“I’m –“ She hesitates, clearly unsure how to phrase her words. “I’m touching myself. I’m holding the phone in my right hand, and the fingers of my left hand are inside my vulva.” 

  
“Don’t say that,” he instructs, wanting more from her. “Don’t be clinical, Rachel. Challenge yourself. You know what I want to hear. Say it. Please.”

  
“My – my pussy,” she says, carefully, her words shaking like the legs of a newborn colt. “My cunt. I’m so  _wet_ , Mr. Schue. I don’t think I’ve ever been this wet before.”

  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, and his cock throbs again in his fist, pre-come stealing over the tip. “Rachel – ”

  
“Your hands are on my breasts.” She’s returning to their quickly unraveling narrative. “It’s exactly what I need. I moan, and push back against you. Your mouth is on my neck, kissing it.”

  
“I can’t wait,” Will pants. The image of her in her bedroom, hand between her legs, imposed over the image of Rachel on his lap, grinding against his cock, is too much for him. Lingering’s suddenly no longer an option. “I’m pushing my hand underneath your skirt. I want to take my time with you, go slow, but I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t wait.”

  
“I don’t want you to wait, I don’t – Mr. Schue – ” 

  
“I’m sliding my fingers in and out of your wet pussy, Rachel,” he tells her, too far gone to think about what he’s saying, or question if it’s too much for her. “I’m fucking you with my fingers, and you know exactly what to do, you’re fucking back against my hand, you’re so eager for it.”

  
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, my God.”

  
“I’m undoing my pants. I’ve got my cock in my hand.” He’s thrusting faster into his fist now, palm slick with his own fluid. “You feel it against the back of your skirt, don’t you, Rachel? It’s making you wetter. Tell me.”

  
“I’m pulling off my panties,” she manages. “I’m pulling them down but I’m keeping my skirt on. I want to see you, Mr. Schue. I want to see your pe– your cock. I think I want to touch it.”

  
“Turn around,” he tells her, his mind bursting with senses: Rachel on his lap and Rachel’s pussy around his fingers and the heady scent of her arousal and the weight of her compact body. “Turn around, please, please, Rachel, turn around.”

  
“I’m touching it,” she says. “I’m holding it in my hand.” She doesn’t elaborate, or describe what she’s seeing, what she’s feeling. He’s muddled in the greedy grip of lust, but Will still wonders, briefly, if she’s ever seen male genitalia up close before. “I’d like it inside me.”

  
“Straddle me, then,” he moans. “Get your knees on either side of me and sink yourself down. You’ve got to help me, Rachel. You’re the one on top. You’re the one controlling this. Fuck yourself on me.”

  
She’s gasping into the phone: ragged but measured sounds that tell him she’s built a working rhythm for herself. “I’m doing it. I’m taking you into me. Your face is – I want to see your face, Mr. Schue. While you’re inside me. It’s astonished, isn’t it? Like you can’t believe this is happening. Like you always wanted it, but didn’t know how to ask me.”

  
“That’s right,” he pants. It’s what she wants to hear. His fist is so tight around his cock, firm and hot, confining. He can almost believe it’s Rachel, if he tries, even though he knows she’d be wetter, tighter. “That’s right.”

  
“I’m moving my hips. Is that what you want me to do?”

  
“Tell me – no, don’t ask me what to do. Tell  _me_  what you want me to do. Please, tell me.”

  
“Touch my breasts again,” Rachel says, quickly. “Touch me everywhere.”

  
His hand is filled with his cock and with her, the swell of her breast and the jut of her hip. “I’m touching you. I’m – God, you feel incredible. What else – tell me what else I can do – can I –“ Will’s nearly incoherent, distended from reckless want, too far gone to filter his fantasies. “I want to eat you out, I want you all over my face, hot, wet, I want to choke on your cunt–“

  
“I want to do this at school,” she groans. “I want you to sit in your desk chair and I want to do this, just this, exactly this, I want to open my legs and touch myself and touch you and take you in.”

  
“Yes,” Will tells her, again, “Yes, I want you to, want to watch you riding me – oh,  _fuck_  –“ and he’s coming, suddenly, the harsh cry of it occupying the whole of his mouth and teeth and tongue; his chin is jammed against the receiver and Rachel’s saying something into his ear but he can’t hear her, he’s spilling over his fist and he’s emptying into her warm, welcoming body and he’s giving her everything he has. 

  
“Rachel,” he says, when he can think again. “Are you – did you?”

  
“Did I what?” she asks, and her voice is unsteady. “Climax?”

  
Will releases his hand, rubs his fingers together, the viscous marker of his transgression sticky and still warm between. He needs a tissue. He needs some water. “Yeah. Did you?”

  
He must be sobering up, just a little, because he notices the tiny pause before she answers in the affirmative. It’s what he wants to hear – the confirmation, not the pause – and so he ignores what she’s really telling him, underneath her desire to say the right thing. It’s easier that way. 

  
“Good,” he comments, suddenly shy with her. He doesn’t know what to say, except to thank her, and that doesn’t seem the right thing to do. Will doesn’t know much about women, but he knows it’s not appropriate to pay them in gratitude. 

  
“Mr. Schue,” she says, quietly. “I hope this – what just happened – I hope it won’t sway your decision about who gets a solo at regionals. I want to earn that solo on my own merits. I want that solo because I deserve it, not because – ” She breaks off.

  
 _Not because I just came to the thought of you bouncing on my cock_ , Will finishes, silently. “This won’t change things,” he promises, even though he shouldn’t. 

  
“It doesn’t need to,” Rachel agrees. 

  
Will doesn’t know if she understands that what they’re saying to each other has nothing to do with the truth, and everything to do with comfort.

  
“On Monday, I’ll behave like nothing’s happened,” she assures him. “It’ll be excellent acting practice for me.”

  
“You do that,” he says, and the thought of her frozen face as she stares at him during practice is overwhelming, a telling marker of the new canon he’s created for them. He’s tired, suddenly, with the effort of orgasm and the effort of perception. “I’m going to say good night now. Good night. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  
“Sleep well, Mr. Schue,” Rachel murmurs. 

  
He won’t. He doesn’t.


End file.
